A Thousand Words
by bigkitty-chan
Summary: Spock is an artist who turned down a place at the Vulcan Science Academy in favor of teaching art on Earth. Kirk is a graffiti artist barely making a living working at a bar. When Spock discovers his talent, he offers a way into art school. Kirk/Spock.
1. Chapter 1

Okay everybody, this is my first ever long term fanfiction. I have only ever posted one other fic and it was a silly little one shot. I know that most people do their pandering for reviews at the end of the chapters, but I'd really appreciate any sort of feedback you could give~

Summary: Spock is an artist who turned down a place at the Vulcan Science Academy in favor of teaching art on Earth. Kirk is a graffiti artist barely making a living working at a bar. When Spock discovers his talent, he offers him a way into art school. Kirk/Spock.

* * *

The sun blazed down on the transport, cutting through the through the windows and providing a clear view of the shining city below. Spock inclined his head toward the glass and took in the sight. It was not his first time visiting Earth, no, his mother had insisted that he visit the planet, wishing for him to learn a bit more about this side of his heritage; although it was the first time he was visiting voluntarily.

Spock clutched the data PADD in his lap tight enough to make his knuckles to go white. He was well aware that it was illogical to be nervous. All of the necessary arrangements had been made, his room paid for, and the academy was expecting him. He had secured a teaching position at the San Francisco Center for Visual Arts and he intended to make the most of his stay.

His father had not been happy when he was informed that Spock would rather study art than attend the Vulcan Science Academy as he was expected. In Spock's defense, it had not been an easy decision. He had actually lost sleep over the matter, something his father would have blamed his human genetics for.

After living for years under the unspoken scrutiny of his Vulcan peers, hearing their displeasure in his father's choice of mate finally vocalized at his acceptance hearing made him realize that his mind had already been made up for a long time. As he glared up at the elders with a fiery defiance in his eyes, he was met by Sarek's stony gaze. To everyone else, he appeared as indifferent as when Spock had entered the chamber. But Spock knew differently; the gaze that had met his own that day bored into his own with a deep disappointment with which he was all to familiar. The visual confrontation seemed to last for an eternity even though his Vulcan internal clock told him it was only 4.5 seconds.

That had been the last exchange he and his father shared before Spock's departure to Earth the next morning. Now that he was here, the gravity of his decision becoming real, he was not so sure he made the right choice. Would a life at the Vulcan Science Academy have been as terrible as his mind made it out to be? Even as he asked himself the question, he realized that it was that kind of human like insecurity that had made his life miserable on Vulcan.

"Hey man, are you alright?" The sound snapped Spock back into reality. An accent was rather prominent in the voice, Scottish, Spock identified. He turned his head toward his seat partner, a thirty something man with short cropped brown hair. He had on a well worn green jacket over a white shirt with the image of a silver flask printed at its center. The man spoke again "You look pretty tense, and I wouldn't want you to break that PADD, those things are expensive."

Spock relaxed his grip on the data PADD and glanced down to survey the damage. There were several dents where his fingers had bent the malleable metal protector.

"Too breakable if you ask me," The man continued "not worth the money the manufacturers charge for em'. I've made data storing units with twice the capacity in my garage. Of course I had the spare parts of the last transporter unit to work with. Hah, I'd like to see you try to break grade A Titanium with that crazy Vulcan strength of yours. Oh, my name's Montgomery Scott by the way."

Spock had not asked, and mentally reprimanded himself for being emotionally unstable enough to gain the attention of a human.

"I am Spock, and your concern is unnecessary Mr. Scott, I am careful enough not to break my own equipment."

"S'all the same," he brushed the comment off with a flick of his wrist, "Ya do seem a bit tense though, is that why you came to sunny California? To relax?"

Small talk, Spock identified, was strictly a human activity, one which he had little practice.

"I am here to teach and study art at the San Francisco Center for Visual Arts." He replied.

"Wow, its got to be a good school if even I've heard of it. Never had any talent for art myself, unless you count repairing transports as sculpture." Mr. Scott's face brightened with the conversation. "But there is a talented lad in my intro to Engineering class who doodles all over his homework, I'd be mad, but he gets all the problems right."

Spock quirked an eyebrow. He was only mildly interested in the conversation, but was fascinated by the effort the man was putting into engaging him.

Before either of them had a chance to say another word the intercom buzzed and an automated voice blared from the ceiling. "Attention passengers, we are now nearing central station in down town San Francisco. Please remain seated with safety harnesses intact until the transport comes to a complete stop. Thank you for choosing Air Alpha, have a nice day."

"Well, I guess that's our stop," Piped , gathering up his bag "I'm working over at the Star Fleet Academy, which is not to far from where you'll be working, perhaps we'll bump into each other again sometime."

Spock inclined his head "I would not be opposed to a future meeting," he said the words with sincerity, he was intrigued by Mr. Scott's openness and wondered if it was a trait that many humans shared. It was something he would have to look into.

Spock gathered his things, placed the now dented PADD into the carry on bag he kept at his feet, and slid into the isle. The transport had been relatively empty, so it was easy for him to make his way through the vehicle following Mr. Scott. A lady with hair braided in twelve different ways was at the door to make sure they made it out safely. Spock had a fleeting thought that a hive of Achalas, a flying insect similar to Earth bees, could be hiding inside her hairstyle and no one would be the wiser.

The thought tugged at the corners of his mouth, threatening to produce a smile. He nodded to the woman as he exited the vehicle, using the motion to hide his momentary loss of emotional control. He was met by a bright sun and a familiar face he had not expected to see so soon.

"Hello Spock," The face of Chris Pike was not an unwelcome sight, although it was not the one he had expected to greet him. "I knew you would need someone to show you around, and I thought this would be a good opportunity for us to catch up."

Spock was taken aback by the kind gesture from the former Admiral. It was not something he was used to, and he was surprised how much he appreciated seeing someone he knew.

Christopher nodded to Mr. Scott "Its good to see you again too, Scotty; how's that formula for transwarp beaming coming along?"

Mr. Scott grumbled something about "not wanting to talk about it" and "unfair accusations" as he walked away from the pair, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he went.

Raising an eyebrow Spock questioned the older man "I was not aware you were interested in the logistics of starship transportation."

Chris smiled "Oh, its just a joke from my last year with Starfleet, Scotty there thought he had figured out how to successfully transport objects to and from Starships while in warp drive. Needless to say he did not get the result he mean to." he chuckled at something Spock did not understand. "So, would you like to catch dinner with me? You must be hungry after your flight."

"That would be most agreeable Admiral." Chris held up a hand at the title

"Its Chris, Spock, I retired from Starfleet over a year ago. There's no reason to call me by that title anymore." They began walking

"I will admit that it is a difficult habit to break, it is difficult to think of you doing anything other than commanding a fleet." after a moments pause, he added "Christopher."

Christopher Pike had resigned as an Admiral from Starfleet a little over a year before to accept an administration position at the San Francisco Center for Visual Arts. According to Pike, having any sort of artistic ability was not required to choose qualified teachers for up in coming art students. He and Spock had become aquatinted in Chris' captaining days when he had accompanied Sarek on a diplomatic mission to Earth. Spock thought the trip would be educational and did not expect to find anyone else who knew how to play three dimensional chess. They got to know each other over several games that not only ended in the Captain's ruthless defeat, but a long conversation about the differences between Vulcan and Earth classical art techniques.

He and Spock had continued corresponding throughout the years; and when Christopher gave up his Starfleet career in favor of an artistic one, Spock had been one of the first to know. Congruently, Christopher had been the one who offered Spock the teaching position to give him a chance to promote his work in a different setting.

A gentle hand clapped Spock on the back and said "That's more like it, this isn't just about business, its nice to see an old friend again."

For the second time that day, Spock felt the corners of his mouth twitching upward. He followed his friend feeling a reassuring warmth in his heart he found himself not wanting to fade.


	2. Chapter 2

Wow guys! Thanks so much for the amazing reviews! I can't believe I got so many on such a short chapter. This chapter introduces everybody's favorite starship captain (or artist in my story), James Kirk! My writing changes slightly as the POV changes, but I wanted to make each part as in character as I possibly could.

Thanks to Peachly, Harm Marie, passionfornight, and JadeMac2442~ You don't know how much I appreciate the feedback. It makes this whole experience a little less terrifying.

Also, this chapter has most of the reasons for the rating in it. Swearing, cursing, sailor's mouth, whatever you want to call it, Kirk's got it.

Disclaimer: forgot to put it in the first chapter, but I'm not Gene Roddenberry. I was born a years after Star Trek was created and have no claim to their rights. Also, I don't actually condone vandalism people. Its not cool y'all hear?

ONWARD TO VICTORY!

* * *

WELCOME TO HELL

Spock stared at the words plastered to the side of his apartment building. The letters curled around and tangled into each other until they were barely recognizable. He noted the hot pink and baby blue spray paint that played in sharp contrast to the message they were being used to portray. His eyes slid in a circular motion around the piece. It was blatant destruction of private property, vandalism, and yet he could not tear his eyes away.

He took one step closer to the brick wall, close enough to smell the pungent odor of fresh spray paint. He reached a hand out to the lower right hand side of the image. A long finger lightly grazed the pattern that the artist had clearly done last. It was painted over top of the other coats; done sloppily which contrasted the impeccable clarity of the rest of the painting. It was a loopy signature of sorts, although Spock doubted that this string of eccentric lines made up anyone's actual name.

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow "Fascinating," he muttered under his breath. Whoever had constructed the painting must have done it in a relatively short period of time; he, or she, would only have had no more than 4 hours between the patrol robot's rounds in which to create this work. No, he corrected, it would have been less time than that. If the patrol robot's scan had picked up anything like this, it would have been sonic blasted on sight. The work would have been done between the last round and when Spock had arrived a short time ago.

A slight breeze swept through the alley and Spock caught himself stifling a shiver. Reluctantly, he began to walk towards the door of his new apartment to settle in for the night. He had just reached the door when abruptly he stopped, bent down, and began to rummage through his bag. When he emerged, he held an image recorder in his fingers. Leaving his bag at the base of the set of stairs, he circled back toward the brick wall. Holding the recording device steady, he pressed a small button to capture the image. When he was certain the picture was safely stored, he turned back to his belongings, slipped the device back into its spot in his bag, and strode into the building.

* * *

James Tiberius Kirk was not having a pleasant day. He had woken up, head throbbing with such intensity, he was sure his neighbors could hear the pounding; but when the majority of the previous night had been spent drowning brain cells in liquor, what else was to be expected?

A quiet evening with his sketchbook had turned into a cirrhosis nightmare when his long time friend, Leonard McCoy, had pounded on his door holding a suitcase. Mandy, the decidedly nude model Jim had been sketching had skittered out soon after, not that getting laid really mattered when his best friend had just left his wife. Or had he gotten kicked out? Bones had been pretty out of it already by the time he made it to his place and Jim was hard pressed to get a straight answer out of him.

Jim had seen Bones go through a lot. He'd seen him completely shit faced, stumbling away from a bar at 3 AM ranting about real men being able to hold their liquor before getting sick all over the sidewalk. He'd seen him when his daughter, Joanna, entered school, with a ridiculous smile plastered on his face, eyes glittering with pure paternal pride. He'd seen him when a lawsuit had almost put an end to his career. But not once in all the years he had known this man had he seen him cry. It was a sobering sight to see his friend, someone so stubborn, he would rather loose his medical license than admit to being an incompetent doctor, utterly broken. The sobriety did not last long.

Within three hours, they had cleaned out two thirds of Jim's stash of alcohol. Jim didn't normally approve of drinking himself into oblivion, but this was an exceptional situation. He hadn't fallen asleep as much as blacked out. The last this he could remember was an exceptionally intoxicated Bones trying to balance five shot glasses on top of each other. It was a fleeting hope that he would not step on broken glass this morning.

Rolling out of the pile of blankets he had passed out on top of, Jim stumbled, half blinded by the morning light, into the bathroom, stepping over a very unconscious and heavily snoring Bones on the way. A bleary eye glanced and the blinking clock on the counter. The screen read 1251 hours. Jim blinked, his brain momentarily freezing, before his body sprung into action. "Fuck," one foot shoved haphazardly into the leg of his pants "Shit," a hand rummaged through a drawer, pulling out the first shirt he could fund and pulling it over his head "Damn it," he grasped at his comm unit, ignoring the 12 missed calls message that was obnoxiously blinking in his face and punched in a code as fast as his fingers could move.

"Kirk!" Jim flinched and pulled the communicator away from his ear as the voice cut into his brain and spiked his headache up another notch. "I should fire your ass! Your almost a hour late for your shift! If you don't get your ass over here in fiver minutes, you will be canned so hard your grandkids will have bruises!"If it was possible to slam a comm unit, Jim was sure that's what Tony had just done. Rubbing his ear, he rushed across the room, glancing in the mirror to make sure he looked remotely presentable. He grabbed his bag, and after making sure that Bones was still breathing, he bolted out the door.

Taken aback by the intense brightness of the sun that day, it took Jim an extra moment to find his hover bike. Speeding down a San Francisco road is not normally a good idea, to do it with a raging hangover was damn near suicidal. Somehow, he made it to Tony's bar, which was about 3 miles away, in under 6 minutes.

This Side of Paradise was a little bar in midtown that catered mostly to the cadets in Starfleet. It was also only 3 blocks away from the San Francisco Center for Visual Arts, the reason Jim had come all the way across the country. It was the only reason he was working as a bartender for little more than tips. Every night that he stumbled back to his apartment after a long day of work, he was that many credits closer to his dream. Any credits he didn't blow on art supplies, damn those things were expensive, went straight into his school stash.

He'd heard enough shit about wanting to be an artist from his mom. Was it too much to ask that she support him even though he didn't want to fallow in his Father's footsteps? Apparently it was because all he ever heard from her was "Your father did not give up his life for you just to see you to throw it away doing something as inconsequential as art!"he could still hear her shrill voice in the back of his mind. He knew his mother loved him, and she had never been anything less than loving his entire life, despite him being a constant reminder of what she had lost; but when it came to his life, he was going to do what he wanted to, it was that passion that was vital to his well being. Without it, he wouldn't be able to survive.

Jim was met by an angry red face as he walked into the little bar. "The only reason your ass isn't out on the street now is because it would be too difficult to train in a new employee on such short notice."

"I'm sorry Tony, I must have missed my alarm. I promise it won't happen again." Jim knew it would be a pain to try to find another job this close to both his apartment and his dream school, it would be best if he just laid low and tried to keep from getting into any more trouble for the time being.

"Your right it won't," Tony's large gait prevented Jim from reaching the back of the bar to start the work the man had been so angry he was late for. His beady dark brown eyes surveyed his appearance in silent appraisal "What the hell is a tribble?" Jim looked down at his shirt. In his haste, he had shoved the joke "I heart tribbles" tee shirt his mother had gotten him for April Fools day the previous year on instead of a nicer shirt. He never wore the shirt outside of his apartment, or at all if he could help it. "You know what, I don't even want to know. Just get to work." The bulky man shook his head and started to walk into the back room.

Behind the bar, a woman, who's skin was green in its entirety, stood flirting with one of the customers, clearly about to earn the tips that the man was currently emptying into the credit machine. Gaila's brilliantly red hair flounced as she laughed a little too hard at something he had whispered in her ear. She patted the man on the hand, leaving him thoroughly flustered, and turned towards Jim.

"You owe me one Jimmy," she cooed "I was studying for an important exam when Tony there called me in to cover your shift."

Jim smirked "Oh, I'm sure you were 'studying' something alright, although I highly doubt that your form of studying involved books or notes of any sort."

A pout painted Gaila's pink lips "Biology exams require hands on experience, what can I say?" An exquisite green hand found its way to Jim's arm and traced subtle patterns along defined biceps "But I can think of a few ways that you could help me make up for lost time."

Jim slipped the bag off his shoulder and let it slide to the ground. There was a clink of metal hitting metal as the bag's contents were jostled "You know I'd love to help you with that, but I've got a friend crashing at my place for, well, I don't know how long now, and your roommate has already expressed her distinct distaste for having any of your conquests in your room, particularly me." What was it that Uhura had called him? Oh, that's right, a mangy farm boy who only has sex with farm animals.

"Hah," Gaila's voice quieted to a hush "Well, you know where to find me if your ever feeling up for a round two." The words went straight to Jim's gut and his eyes followed the curve of her hips as she slunk away from him. Jim forced his eyes away and began to count change before Tony could come out from the back room and yell at him for not working.

Gaila was just about out the door when Jim heard her call out "Nice shirt, by the way!"

* * *

8 hours later, an exceptionally tired Jim finally let the door of This Side of Paradise swing behind him on his way out. Exhaustion coated his entire being, he really needed to blow off some steam after that shift. Despite it being a particularly busy evening, tips had been meager. Stupid students and their damn regulated allowances, there was no way they would waste it on tips when they could be buying more booze.

Tony had kept him an extra 2 hours over his scheduled shift, apparently to make up for his slip up that morning, and Jim wasn't going to complain about extra hours when he could only just make rent. What he was going to complain about was not boing able to get off early enough to sneak into the Art Center's spray paint garage and practice the new font he had come up with. Since picking up graffiti style art earlier that year, it had been something that exhilarated him to no end.

Shuffling his bag full of various spray paints over his shoulder, he looked around the street. Across from him was a small, attractive, apartment building made of sturdy brick, something that had barely changed in over 200 years. the clean, red wall on the far right end was partially hidden by trash receptacles taller than he was.

It was too perfect.

Glancing at his watch, he estimated that he had another hour or so before the patrol came by this area again. That was plenty of time to get what he wanted done. He would be hidden from sight by the large trash containers, and really, how much harm could a little practice be? It would take the patrol all of 5 seconds to sonic blast the painting and all the evidence would be gone.

Mind made up, Kirk stomped across the street, making sure no one saw him as he hid behind the large obstructions. He zipped open his bag, first securing a breathing mask around his face, then pulling out a violent shade of pink spray paint. With a deep breath, Jim shook and uncorked the bottle and began to work before he lost his nerve.

The paint was like magic in his hands. He could feel the easy flow of liquid change slightly when he changed the can's distance from the wall. His control needed more work, he noted, as he went along, outlining the letters. This particular medium had the ability to pull him in like nothing else did. Something about being able to leave a mark, even one as inconsequential and erasable as graffiti filled his heart with a sense of purpose.

He popped the top off another can, baby blue this time, and started filling in a background, carefully working around the edges and fixing the sloppy lining as he went around. This had been just what he needed. The stress of work was melting away, it would all be worth it to be able to do work like this for the rest of his life. Layers of paint built upon themselves in a cacophony of color, a symphony of emotions danced around him as he effortlessly created. Nothing else mattered at that moment, it was just him, the wall, and the paint in between.

This had been the reason for several breakups. He was not sure that he could ever find anyone he could love as much as creating art, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Jim was glad for girls, and the occasional man, like Gaila. He could have a relationship without restraints, ones unbound by the restrictions a girlfriend or boyfriend would offer. Even if Jim had wanted more at that point in time, he doubted that he could find anyone who would love not only him, but this creative process as much as he did.

The screech of a hover car coming to a stop in front of the building brought Jim back to his senses. He scrambled, almost dropping a can in his haste to shove them all back into his bag. Fumbling with the black can, he quickly scribbled his tag onto the lower right hand side of the mostly finished mural. He ripped the mask off, cringing at the aerosol paint smell as he inhaled, and ducked behind the building. He would have to wait to get back across the street to his bike until the pedestrians were gone.

Muffled male voices came from the front of the building. One was calm and smooth, the words seemed carefully calculated and thoughtful. The other came from someone Kirk identified as older and was excited but sincere. A single light burst of laughter wafted towards him just before he heard the two men say goodbye. He saw the older man climb back into the hover taxi and drive away. He sighed, accidentally dropping the can of black paint doing so. Kirk swore under his breath as the loud clatter prompted footsteps heading in his direction.

Holding his breath, Jim pressed himself behind the building, there was a fence on either side, and no way for him to run out the way he came without being seen, so he simply stayed as still as possible, heart pounding, hoping he didn't make another sound.

It surprised him to hear the footsteps suddenly stop. He waited with baited breath for the man to move again. When 5 minutes passed and there was no sound, Jim began to wonder what was going on. Whoever was out there hadn't gone back in, he would have heard that. So Jim eased himself off the wall and, curiosity getting the better of him, peeked his head slowly out from his hiding place.

To his surprise, the man stood, still as a statue, staring at the mural Jim had just completed. Slick black hair lay neatly in a tight bowl cut around his head. He was wearing a high necked deep grey tunic that matched his dark pants exactly. The sharp features of the man's face sat in complete control of themselves and Jim couldn't help his eyes wandering to the accute tips of his sharply pointed ears. A Vulcan was staring at his painting. His emotional splurge of artistic creativity was being analyzed by the decided eyes of a completely logical race. He wanted to slam his head into the wall. This was not how he wanted his work to be seen. If he had to receive a critique from a Vulcan, he wanted it to be something serious, something that didn't result in the defacing of property.

Just as he was about to slink back behind the wall, the Vulcan made a move, stepping closer to the wall, he lifted his hand to lightly touch Jim's tag.

"Fascinating"

Jim's heart almost stopped.

He watched as the other man's eyes circled the painting several more times before he finally began to walk back to the front of the building. The breath Jim had been holding was finally released, and he reached for the can he had dropped. For good measure, he waited a moment to make sure the Vulcan really was gone. It was a good thing he did too, because he soon reappeared, this time with a recording device in his hands. Jim waited, he heard a click that must have been the image recorder, a few more steps, a pause, then the swipe of a key card and an audible click as the door to the apartment finally closed.

Alone again Jim readied himself for the journey home. He made his way back to his hover bike and took the easy route to his apartment. Knowing Bones would be working by this time, he slung the can filled bag onto the floor. He reminded himself to thank his new roommate for cleaning the mess they had created the night before, and flopped down on the couch.

The silence was audible, his confusion just as deep.

He was left alone with his thoughts to ponder what had just transpired.


	3. Chapter 3

EDIT: so apparently my word document program sucks. When I uploaded this earlier today, I had re-checked it a few times for errors (although I am a pretty inexperienced writer, and probably missed some things) and thought that it was pretty much okay. Unfortunately, when it appeared on FF, words were squished together, and some words had been taken out entirely. I loaded the fic onto my text edit program, and I hope I caught all the errors. Don't hesitate to tell me if there are more though! I always appreciate a good editor, I know I'd make a crappy one.

This update took a little longer, but I hope its worth the wait! Apparently I love drunk people. I wasn't aware of this fact until I started writing this chapter, and realized how many drunk scenarios there are/will be in the story

You don't know how much I appreciate reading all of your lovely reviews~ I can't believe this story has been so popular! Its super encouraging. Special thanks to the new watchers, I hope the story doesn't disappoint!

Much love to LizzyLove89 who is the reason for my Star Trek obsession, I probably would have never written this if it weren't for her.

Love to robin's clone, JadeMac2442, HealingHelper227, Peachly (again, you are awesome), Harm Marie, passionfornight, save the sharks, and Jiko Hitasura. Love you guys~

* * *

Leonard reached for his tricorder, not that he needed it, he didn't even need a primitive twentieth century breathalyzer test to tell him that this patient's blood alcohol level was at least point two. Clinic hours on a friday night were little less than hellish. The fact that he was still running on the single detox hypo he had given himself earlier was astonishing. The perks of being a medical doctor with Star Fleet included instant hangover cures. Although it was not something he liked using very often, showing up to clinic duty with bloodshot eyes and a swaggering step would be one way to get him knocked out of the service completely, and he did not need to add unemployed to his long list of defaults.

Of the thirteen patients he had seen in the last eight hours, not one had been over the age of thirty. Really, he thought, Star Fleet cadets should know better than to drink themselves to the point of alcohol poisoning. Leonard frowned at the hypocrisy of the thought.

He waved the sleek silver machine over the body on the cot. There was something soothing about the light whirring noise it made as it processed information. He glanced at the little dial as soon as the red light began blinking, signaling completion.

Leonard quickly administered the alcohol diffusion hypo to the unconscious boy and stepped back, inhaling slowly. The sterile smell of antibiotics and hand sanitizer no longer made his head spin as it had in the early years of medical school, but there was something the still felt so impersonal about it. The white walls reflected ugly hard light onto his patient's young face. When his friends had brought him in, he had already been unconscious.

He stared at the boy on the table, he knew from the patient's file that he had just turned twenty five. His face was pensive in sleep, dark circles under his eyes. A small guy like that shouldn't be drinking as much as he had. It was not the first time Leonard had been thankful for modern medicine. His eyes slid down the cot until something he hadn't noticed before caught his eye. On the boy's left hand ring finger was a silver band. A wedding ring.

Leonard suddenly felt sick.

There was no reason for him to still be at the clinic, his shift had ended almost an hour ago. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he handed the data PADD with the patient information off to a young nurse. "He'll be fine in a few minutes, check his vitals when he regains consciousness and he can be discharged." He no longer wanted to be in that room, he had to get out of there, breathe some fresh air to clear his head.

"Are you going on break then?" the petite nurse asked.

"No," Leonard shook his head, trying to keep his distress from showing "I'm going home for the night. I don't think I can be here another minute." With that, he turned on heel and strode quickly to the staff locker room. He ripped off the blue Star Fleet regulation shirt and hastily changed back into his street clothes.

He felt bad for asking Kirk to take him in when he knew he could afford a hotel, but he didn't know if he could handle himself alone with his thoughts. He could never express fully how much he appreciated having his friend there when he needed a shoulder to cry on, and expression that had proved itself all to literal the night before.

He glanced down at the shirt he had just slipped over his head. It had been a gift from Kirk for his birthday earlier that year. That artsy little bastard had covered the whole thing with a pattern of bones, something he doubted had much to do with his profession, and more to do with the nickname he had acquired in Jim's presence.

_"Leno-, Leoda-, Leon-"_

_"My name would be Leonard, Jim." he stated, helping Kirk onto the couch. _

_"Yeah, that's the one." Jim slurred. He reached for the remote, absently flipping on the telescreen as he tried, with difficulty, to construct a coherent sentence. "Hey, I know this show, its the one with the fantastic- foreign- foresni- fuck it, the bone doctor."_

_"Uh huh" He hadn't been called all the way out to a backwater bar in the middle of nowhere, picked Kirk up, and brought him back to his apartment, to listen to his friend's drunk ramblings about a show that had been off net for over two hundred years. He just didn't want his friend to end up dead on the side of the road because he had tried to hitch hike home and wound up with the one axe murderer in California. He turned to leave._

_"They call her 'Bones', hahaha, that's a good nickname, I should start calling you that."_

_Leonard raised an eyebrow "And why would you start doing that?" not quite knowing why he thought Jim would have any sort of rational explanation for the decision at this point._

_"Cuz I can't prono-porn-, shit, say your real name when I'm this drunk, and your both doctors. Besides, its better than Dr. Jekyll, isn't it?"_

_"Jim, I'm a medical doctor, not a forensic anthropologist, and since when does anyone call me Dr. Jekyll?"_

_Jim threw his head back and laughed. The buoyant sound bounced off the walls, filing the room with a lighthearted atmosphere. He settled down on the couch, laying more on his side than sitting up, and shut his eyes, stupid grin still plastered to his face. The telescreen hummed contently in the background._

_Leonard sighed "How come you've got to call me every time you get into trouble Jim?"_

_The smile faltered a little before Jim seemed to catch himself. He brushed off the comment "Because, Bones," Leonard cringed at the new nickname, actually hoping that Jim didn't remember anything in the morning "Who else would come out at three in the morning and help me out? Your really the only one I've got." It was something he would have never admitted to sober, and Leonard found himself feeling a little sorry for asking. _

Snapping out of flash back mode, he remembered where he was and that he probably looked stupid still standing there. Grabbing his medical bag, he made his exit, trying to avoid the attention of his colleagues.

* * *

Making a promise to himself to take Jim out for dinner or something before he left for good, Leonard walked up the two flights to his friend's apartment. It wasn't until he was standing outside the door that he realized that he didn't have a key. He held his fisted hand up to the old fashioned hinged door, hesitating slightly. He'd feel bad for waking Jim up this early, but he didn't have time to. Before he could knock, the door swung open to reveal a disheveled and paint covered Jim.

"Hey Bones, what took you so long? I was starting to worry." he stepped aside to let Leonard enter. "I saw you drive up." He gestured to the window that looked over the building's entrance, answering McCoy's unspoken question.

The room had been set up to accommodate a large canvass spread out on the floor. A blue tarp had been laid out to catch splatters of paint that happened to fall. Several paint brushes, a bowl filled with muddy paint water, and a couple of wadded up paper towels lay strewn around the work in progress. Jim stepped over the edges of the tarp, returning to give the painting a contemplative look.

"Busy night at the clinic," Leonard spoke finally, letting the door swing lightly shut behind him. "Listen, Jim, if you don't want me here...I can go find a hotel to crash in. There's no reason I should be taking up your space-"

"Woah, what prompted this? Did I say you couldn't stay here? Really man, I thought you knew me well enough to know that if I didn't want you here, I'd let you know." Completely ignoring Leonard's trepidation, he hovered over the painting like a vulture waiting to strike. He knelt down slowly, taking a thick paintbrush in one hand and a tube of black acrylic paint in the other. His hand swept down over the cloth, adding a large black stain at the uppermost edge of the painting.

"Well, I'll be out of your hair soon enough, I promise." If he hadn't made up with Jocelyn by the end of the week, he would go find his own place, he vowed. "What are you working on now?" Leonard asked, peeking at the painting. It wasn't often that he got to see his friend work, and it was surprising to see him so calm, completely transfixed in his creation; The hard line of his shoulders relaxed into an easy slump.

There was a figure placed at the center of a whirlwind of color. Strong, dark features hardened the image, drawing the focal point inward, away from the fuzzy rainbow torrent that surrounded it. He could see the profile view of a man staring off into the distance. The most defined portion of the picture was the man's face, it bore the same ruminative look that he had sometimes seen Jim wear when he looked at art.

"A fascinating enigma," Jim replied, dipping in to blend the dark color into the lighter ones for a smooth transition.

A little taken aback by Jim's sudden textbook speech, Leonard raised an eyebrow "What's that's supposed to mean? Someone you know?"

Jim's brush paused mid stroke "Not exactly know... I saw him looking at one of my paintings after work."

Leonard failed to see what was so fascinating about that, he had never known an artist as talented as Jim Kirk, it would have been much more surprising had he said this man walked by the painting without looking at it "Not sure I get it, isn't that kind of what your going for?"

"Well, it wasn't exactly a normal venue. The side of a building isn't exactly where most art critics hang out."

That got Leonard's attention "No, vandalism Jim? You didn't. You know would have been pretty heavy fine if you had gotten caught."

"I know, I know, spare me the lecture," hands waved in front of his face defensively " That's why I'm so curious. I'm sure he heard me, all he had to do was walk around the corner and he would have caught me red handed, heh, literally, I used quite a bit of red paint. But he didn't, instead he saw the painting and just looked at it like it was the only thing in the world."

"I still don't understand, was this guy a security officer or something? I don't think that most people would go out of their way to catch a graffiti artist."

For the first time in the conversation, Jim looked up "Not security officer, a Vulcan. And he took a picture of it. I don't know whether to be flattered or if I should start watching my back."

Leonard raised a poignant eyebrow "Really, a Vulcan? There are a few of those in Star Fleet, although none in the medical depart. I never figured them to be very artistic."

"That's what I thought. There's something else too," Jim stood up and strode over to the kitchen counter and grasped a flier off the pile of today's mail "I'm on the SFCVA mailing list. When I came home today, this was in the mail transporter." He flipped the pamphlet open to a particular advertisement and handed it off to Leonard.

Words scrolled across the top of the publication "'Desert Sands, a show by Professor Spock." he read out loud. Pictures flashed across the page, showcasing several paintings of desert scenes. It may have had something to do with the ridiculous show title, but Leonard figured that his eyebrow must have reached his hairline by now.

"'Spock' isn't a very common name for a human, and how many artistic Vulcans do you know that live in the San Francisco area? Hell, _any _area?" Jim threw up his hands, conceding defeat to his curiosity. "I've got to go check it out."

McCoy frowned lightly, and glanced back down at the painting Jim had been working on "So, what, your painting him now? I never pegged you for the stalker type, Jim." he mused.

"Har dee har." Jim stuck out his tongue "Have you talked to your wife lately?"

Leonard was suddenly reconsidering finding a hotel.

* * *

Staring at artwork in stunned disbelief seemed to be becoming a habit, although it was new for his own work to be the subject of skepticism.

Desert Sands

A Show by Professor Spock

When Christopher Pine had said there was a surprise waiting for him in the gallery, he had not been kidding. Not sure what he was supposed to feel about the situation, he instead cleared his mind and began walking around the room. Every one of the twenty seven pieces Spock had sent to the school with his application were featured in the exhibit. Sixteen paintings, five drawings, four sculptures, and two three dimensional fractal displays filled the expanse.

It was a Saturday morning, which meant that the school was particularly empty of students and staff, so he had the gallery to himself. Spock casually stepped around the room, looking at his older works. He stopped in front of the largest one on the far east wall. It depicted the Vulcan city Shi'Kahr, the city where Spock had grown up.

In one of the many times Sarek had been away from home, Amanda had encouraged Spock's creative side. She had kept a box of oil paints from Earth and took every advantage she could to educate him in art.

This particular painting had been completed six years prior when Amanda had taken him to experience a traditional Earth custom called 'camping'. It consisted of building a shelter outside and spending several nights fending for ones self in the wild. It was a practice that Spock had found entirely illogical as an entertaining pastime, although he had to admit that he had gained a certain amount of enjoyment from painting the city at night.

The moon's light was reflected off of the buildings, their angular architecture similar to skyscrapers found on Earth, but the scenery was entirely Vulcan. The desert at night had been a particular challenge to paint, he recalled spending twenty three minutes mixing the correct shades of blue he had needed to accurately depict the scene. Amanda had reminded him that it was art, and did not need to be perfect, something Spock found highly illogical and had continued to make the painting as close to real life as he possibly could.

It had been the first painting he had felt deserving enough to show Sarek, lips twitching downward at the memory.

He looked at the fractal displays, their mathematical perfection paying homage to his Vulcan schooling. Even the sculptures were crafted from a clay indigenous to his home planet. Spock knew Christopher was trying be welcoming with the display, but he did not need the constant reminder of his life on Vulcan, the life he had rejected, rearing its ugly head in his workplace.

He found himself not wanting to look at the gallery any longer.

His office was located fifty meters from the entrance to the gallery and was connected to the drawing studio. It was located as such so one had to walk through a canvass filled room to get to it. With the intention of preparing for first class on Monday, Spock exited the gallery. To his surprise, the door to the studio was cracked open and a light flowed from the room.

Spock wondered absently who would be in the studio so early in the weekend because, although it was not something he did, it was his assumption that humans often procrastinated on their assignments; and as he had not yet held a class, there was no reason for anyone to be working in that particular room.

Pushing the door open a little bit more, he peered inside the room. Standing on the other side near an open window was a man. He stood, back turned to Spock, sketching something in a notebook. Spock could hear the slight scraping of pencil on paper and watched as his head bobbed back and forth between the paper and window. The morning sun bathed the figure in a glowing halo of light that reminded Spock of fourteenth and fifteenth century classical Earth paintings that deified their subject matter. A calming tranquility had descended upon the room and Spock could feel it as though it were a tangible thing.

Breaking out of a slight stupor, Spock spoke to the man in front of him "Excuse me, are you a student?"

Startled, the man jolted at the voice; spinning towards it, the notebook slipped from his fingers, scattering loose paper into a cluttered mess on the floor. Spock immediately stepped forward to assist him in recollecting the jumbled articles.

"Oh, sorry. No, I'm not a student, I was just here to see the exhibit." The man stumbled gathering the papers into a pile "I didn't mean to intrude but the door was unlocked and I just wanted to see what a classroom here looked like."

Spock absently noted the response, but his mind was otherwise occupied. One of the fallen pictures caught his eye. It was a rough marker sketch of the wall painting that had decorated the side of his apartment building the night before. The colors were slightly different, and the design had become more refined in the transition between sketch and painting, but the resemblance was unmistakable. He estimated the likelihood of a coincidence to be less than two point five percent.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mess up the room, I just didn't know anyone else was here." Spock barely registered the excuse.

"These are your works?" he asked, hand still on the sketch.

A bit taken aback, the man stuttered slightly "Uh, yeah, they're just sketches though."

"May I see?" Spock held out a hand.

"Yeah, sure." The man slouched lightly, holding out the notebook in one hand and allowing the other to run back through his unkempt hair.

Spock flipped through the pages. The sketches were erratic, featuring every manner of subject matter. There were pages dedicated entirely to studying hands and feet. He turned to a page where a flock of birds scattered around a courtyard were depicted so realistically, they could have flown off the paper.

Rifling further into the book, abstract concepts were discovered, patterns filling entire pages in a whimsical display. There were designs similar to the spray paint display that showcased a large variety of fonts and a wide array of colors. The sensitivity to medium never changed, despite the subject matter. This man had an obvious talent.

"You said you weren't a student?" Spock inquired.

"No," his voiced trailed off slightly "Look, I'm sorry, I can leave if I'm not supposed to be here."

Spock raised an eyebrow "That was not my intended implication," he handed the notebook back "I am merely curious as to why you are not enrolled." He didn't seem old enough to be a professional, but it wasn't something that Spock had ruled out.

With a light chuckle he answered "Well, the tuition isn't exactly something to scoff at. I can't tell you how much I would love to study here, but at the rate things are going, it will be years before I can afford it."

"There are scholarships for which you could apply." Spock offered

The man shuffled in an almost embarrassed manner "Well, I do sketch a lot, but my portfolio of completed work is significantly smaller than what most of the scholarships call for. Besides, the only one that would really help me is the full ride scholarship and they only give one of those out a year. The deadline to apply is in a month, and there's no way I'd be able to finish enough works, in my tiny apartment ,in that amount of time."

Spock wasn't exactly sure why he did what he did next. It was a somewhat brash decision, he did not know this man, the only rational explanation he could offer was the selfish desire to see more of what this young artist had to offer "If you had the use of a studio, do you think you could complete enough works for a portfolio before the deadline?"

Deep blue eyes widened at the offer, but voice thick with skepticism "Your kidding, right? I mean, to answer your question, yeah, it would probably help; but why would you do that for me? You don't even know me."

Spock found himself unable to respond directly when he himself did not know the answer "My name is Spock, I start teaching here on Monday. My class runs until thirteen hundred hours, but I intend to remain until at least seventeen hundred hours each day working on my own projects. If you were to come during those hours, I can grant you full access to the supplies in this room." He knew no one would question the man if he was there as Spock's guest.

Stunned disbelief was broadcasted on the chiseled features of the figure in front of him "I-um, I'm Jim Kirk."

"It is nice to meet you Mr. Kirk." he calmly returned "Am I to assume that the introduction is in acceptance to my offer?"

Blinking to clear himself of the 'deer in the headlights' look, an expression Amanda had occasionally used to describe someone who was significantly flustered, Jim flashed a brilliant smile that made the sun seem to fade in comparison "I'm not quite sure how I could say no."

Spock felt the green on his cheeks deepen slightly with the warm sincerity behind Jim Kirk's words. Quelling a small smile he continued "I hope to see you on Monday Mr. Kirk." There was a slight inclination in his head as he acknowledged the other.

"Call me Jim," and with that, he left, his steps an excited flurry. Spock found it interesting that he seemed to take the sun with him.

* * *

Sorry about the cheesy last line. But things be progressing! I originally wanted to add a scene with Scotty in this chapter, but eight pages single spaced seemed enough for one chapter. It would be super awesome if you could review~ I'll send you a super special slash cookie if you dooooo! 3


	4. Chapter 4

I was going to have another section before this one, but I just couldn't find a way to write it so it occurred before this section. This update took me forever, sorry.

I want to thank Peachly, my super awesome, spectacular, fabulous, and fantastic beta. Without you, I probably would still be writing this chapter.

No real warnings for this chapter, I don't own Star Trek, the usual. Yeah. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Of all of his Vulcan attributes, the ability to go without sleep was certainly the most useful. Spock had spent most of the previous night completing preparations for his first class. The task should not have taken more than two hours, but ended up taking six point five hours factoring in distractions. He had expected his mother to contact him, but he had not expected it to be so soon, and at such an inconvenient time.

Amanda knew the time differences between Earth and Vulcan, and even if she had not, such information was easily accessible. Spock had found it undeniably odd that his mother would not think to check the time before calling, and at first, he had thought that she was trying to subtly remind him of the inconveniences of living on a different planet. He had answered her call with the full intention to remind her that had he attended the Vulcan Science Academy as planned, the probability that they would have had more opportunities to speak was very low. He was calculating the exact figures in his head until he saw the distress on her face.

Her normally effortless smile was pressed in a hard line. She held her hands clasped tight in her lap, peach skin stretched white with tension. Most disturbing though, were the dark half circles that sat uncharacteristically under her warm brown eyes. Spock was not practiced in the art of consoling, but he had been ready to give it his best shot. It was troubling to see his normally composed mother in such a state and had dropped his work without hesitation to speak with her.

He soon realized that his mother's tribulation stemmed not from her own feelings, but the reaction she expected from Spock when he heard what she had to tell him.

T'Pring had contacted Sarek. The news had not come as much of a shock to Spock. Ever since their betrothal on Vulcan,T'Pring had never pretended to approve of Spock's artistic endeavors,her pinion was blatantly obvious even outside the admonishing twinges he would feel through their pre-marital bond. She did not wish for a husband who would spend more time doting on his work then he would on her. She was proof that even Vulcans could be vain in their own right.

She had demanded that Sarek annul the betrothal and had gone so far as to threaten to call upon her right to kal-if-fee when the time came. It surprised Spock that she would even mention such an extreme action. Kal-if-fee was rarely invoked. It normally meant that the male of the pair was suffering from Ponn Farr and the marriage had not been terminated by other means. Such events were rare, occurring once or twice every hundred years, so Amanda's anxiety was not without cause.

Several things about the situation had surprised Spock. First was the suddenness of the announcement. T'pring would not have concerned herself with the matter so soon unless she had an alternative motive, or there was someone else. Spock had long since suspected that T'Pring would not hesitate to break her betrothal vows if propositioned by Stonn, a boy who had attended the same school as both of them. He was proven correct when Amanda explained that T'Pring's mother had discovered them together two days prior.T'Pring had taken the opportunity, paired with Spock's recent departure from Vulcan, to approach Sarek.

She argued that Spock would be an unsuitable mate if he was unable to remain on Vulcan to complete his studies. The fact that he seemed so inclined to relocate on Earth at the first opportunity was proof of his inability to effectively keep with Vulcan tradition. Why, then, should she expect him to be able to raise a family that adheres to those customs?

The other thing that he found intriguing was Sarek's reaction to the matter. He had always expressed desire for Spock to adhere to Vulcan customs in the past. When Amanda had suggested that Spock's pre-marital bond be postponed until he was older than seven, she had been expressly denied. Any particularly human habits Sarek would notice Spock beginning to display were quelled at the source. When it became apparent that Spock's artistic tendencies could not be stopped, Sarek had thrust the burden of the Vulcan Science Academy upon him. Yet in this affair, perhaps one of the most important to the Vulcan way of life, he had deemed T'Pring's argument logically sound; and with Spock's permission, the betrothal would be expunged.

_"I grieve with thee,"_ Amanda had obviously expected Spock to be more troubled. He supposed that in her eyes, he should be. She expected him to think that Sarek's approval of the action was a judgment of his lifestyle choice. Spock did not have to think such a thing when he knew it to be true. Having never really cared for T'Pring one way or another, he had agreed to her terms without so much as a second thought.

Leaning back slightly in his office chair, Spock shuffled the jumble of charcoal self-portraits on his desk into an orderly pile. He had completed grading the first set of in-class assignments as well as prepared for the next day. His first class had been satisfactory, although none of his students seemed as inspired as the one he was waiting for right now.

He had spent much of the day contemplating his mother's message, and after exhausting Spock had several projects he could work on while Jim Kirk was in the studio, but he was looking forward to seeing him work. He did not have to look at the clock to know that it was sixteen hundred and thirty hours. Spock had not gotten a specific time of arrival from Jim, and was beginning to wonder if he was going to show up at all.

His suspicions were put to rest when his acute sense of hearing picked up the sound of footsteps in the hall that had been empty the past forty-five minutes. He heard the quick steps from across the hall, the gentle creek of the studio door being pushed open, and he stood up to greet the young artist.

Jim nudged the office door slightly "Hello?"

Spock pulled the door the rest of the way open "Good afternoon Mr. Kirk."

Stepping back slightly to allow Spock to exit, he smiled brightly "I know that Vulcans are supposed to be super formal or whatever, but really, you can call me Jim." He walked across the room lightly, settling at the table closest to Spock, and swung a bag off his shoulder.

Spock raised an eyebrow "I had believed that humans only used first names after gaining a higher level of familiarity."

Spock could feel the amusement rolling off of him "I didn't think that people who were concerned with developing a level of familiarity would offer studio time to acomplete stranger." He pulled the sketchbook Spock had seen on Saturday out of the bag, followed by a larger sheet of cotton rag paper and a pencil case.

Spock decided to change the subject "Have you put any thought in to what pieces you want to complete?"

Jim nodded, flipping his sketchbook open and lifting several loose sheets out of the way "I've got plenty of ideas that never turn into anything more than a few lines on a piece of paper. I have about ten usable pieces back in my apartment, so if I can turn eight of these sketches into polished works in the next three weeks, I should be able to make the deadline."

"That does not leave you with very much time."

"You don't have to tell me that." Spock noted the exasperation in Jim's voice. He turned back to Spock, his face relaxing gently, and offered him a tender smile "I really do owe you for letting me use the room and stuff. I don't really have the budget for many art supplies at the moment, and this is probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me."

Slightly uncomfortable with the expression of gratitude, Spock shifted his weight between his feet lightly "I am the only one who would be using the studio at this time, it was only logical to offer the space to someone who could make use of it. As for the supplies, the college offers me full usage of the utilities on campus. There is no need to thank me for something that I am receiving for free as well."

"Well, regardless, I'm pretty thankful." He swung around and spread several sketches out in front of him. He stuck the end of a pencil in his mouth and considered the pictures before him.

Spock was about to return to his office when Jim raised his voice again "Hey, I know you probably have a lot of stuff to do, but you could bring it out here and we can work together. I know I normally find it easier to stay on tasl when there is someone around. Oh yeah!" He snapped his fingers and reached into his bag once more "I forgot that I brought supper along with me. A little birdie told me that Vulcans were all vegetarians, so its not much more than a salad, but if you've been here most of the day, you must be hungry."

Spock found himself being handed a clear plastic container, the leafy green contents jostled slightly. "I-" he was about to politely refuse the offer, but he made the mistake of looking into Jim's eyes. Expectant and bright, the light caught the blue hue and scattered brilliance in a dazzling display of color. Spock conceded that this must be the human's way of attempting to show his gratitude "Thank you." He took the salad.

"I hope it's alright, I wasn't sure what you would like and I don't eat enough salads to know what tastes good."

"It looks satisfactory. You would not mind if I joined you?"

"Of course not, please do!" He lifted his bag off of the table to make some room and lightly patted the stool next to him.

Spock stepped across the room, grabbing a blank sheet of paper and a pencil from the pile he had left out for his class, and rounded back to sit next to Kirk. They sat in relative silence for a short period. The only sounds were the scraping of pencil on paper.

"So what's your story?" Jim chimed

"To what are you referring?"

"Well, you're the first Vulcan art professor I have ever met. I'm curious how that happened."

Spock decided the still vaguely phrased statement was not literally asking how they met "All Vulcans learn basic art in school, It is only logical to train all parts of the mind, but few continue the practice."

"So why did you?"

"My mother was fond of painting and continued to instruct me outside of school when my father was off planet. I found the activities enjoyable and began to explore different mediums."

Jim chewed on the inside of his cheek "Your lucky you had someone to support you, I wish my mom had been that way."

"Your mother did not approve of art?"

"It wasn't exactly that she didn't approve of it, it was that she would rather have me do something else with my life." The crease in his brow deepened in thought "She nearly disowned me when I told her I wanted to come to San Francisco for art school."

It seemed that they had more in common than Spock had originally anticipated. He learned in slightly, deepening a curve with his pencil and defining the features of a face "But you decided to come anyway, why?"

Jim let a smirk play across his face. "I decided that life was too short to have someone else plan it out for me. Well that, and I kinda totaled my step dad's car. For the second time. Figured I should probably hightail it out of there." H reached out to the his picture and deliberately smudged a line. Spock watched as the blunt fingers pressed small circles around the page, allowing the graphite to blend.

Spock studied Jim's drawing. Blooming flowers under a clear sky and a flock of birds just catching the wind under their wings. The ground curved around the edges of the page, threatening to swallow up the viewer's field of vision. Jim had switched from his mechanical pencil in favor of one that he could control more easily. The graphite scratched the page lightly; lines collecting

Spock paused, pencil hovering four centimeters above his picture. He stared down at his mother's face on the page. She was one person he knew he could never draw successfully. With all his talent for replicating form, Spock did not think he would ever be able to give his pictures the same life he was witnessing in Jim now. He gazed over the portrait. It was ascetically pleasing; the gentle curve of Amanda's face mirrored the easy swoop of her headscarf. Her face was all cheekbones held high and proud above a smile that looked too natural on one who had married a Vulcan. Wrinkles were easing their way into the corners of here eyes. Her eyes. With all his skill, Spock was simply unable to match them.

A stool creaked slightly. Jim leaned over Spock's shoulder to assess the portrait "She's beautiful. Who is she?" A trace of awe was detectable in his quiet voice.

Placing the pencil on the table with a light clatter, Spock calmly replied "Amanda Grayson," a slight pause, "my mother."

Surprise widened the blue eyes before him "Amanda doesn't sound like a very Vulcan name."

"She is human." Spock stated.

"Really?" Jim's eyebrows rose intently "That explains some stuff."

A twinge of annoyance rose out of Spock. He did not want to hear anyone else tell him that his human heritage "explained things" as Kirk had so quaintly put it. Lips pulled tight, he questioned Jim, "What do you mean?"

Jim pulled back hastily. "No, shit, I didn't mean it like that. I just meant that art seems like a much more human thing for a parent to teach their child. Hell, my first experience with painting was with a little set of watercolors that my mom brought home from one of her trips off planet. Something she was not happy that I brought up when I told her I was coming here." He was gesturing wildly in attempt to get his point across.

It was somewhat amusing to see Kirk flounder like a fish out of water with his explanation. Spock's face relaxed "I believe you are correct. My father was not pleased when he discovered what she was teaching me."

Ceasing the little flittering movements in favor of a more relaxed demeanor, Jim rested his elbow on the table and hunched over so his chin could sit on the heel of his hand "I'm sure he was _real_ happy when you told him you wanted to pursue it full time." Jim's sarcasm was not mocking, but understanding.

"He was not. It seems as though we have that in common."

"It would seem so. It seems like Humans and Vulcans aren't as different as you might expect. People can argue about raising kids all they want, but in the end, they're all just parents."

Spock was beginning to think he might like interacting with humans after all.

* * *

Reviews are like ice cream. With extra sprinkles and a cherry on top. The best gift you can give me is a review. Thanks so much to everyone who has already reviewed/watched/favorited this fic. I love you so much and I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for you. Well, I probably would, but it would never see the light of day.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: All of you have every reason to hate me. BUT I'M FINALLY BACK IN ACTION. I really really appreciate the wonderful reviews and encouragement~ If I haven't replied to your comment, it is only because I was a bit ashamed that the update was taking so long. The next chapter will not take me nearly as long, considering it is 95% written now.

SO MUCH LOVE GOES OUT TO PEACHLY. She is my extremely patient beta who puts up with my lateness and has been an amazing in helping me find my voice. She has a new fic out that you should all read. Its an art AU as well, but this one takes place on Vulcan! It is fantastic so far and I am so excited to see where she takes it.

Kirk's point of view takes charge in this chapter, I hope you enjoy it!

Jim spent the next few days deciding which sketches should be turned into finished works. He decided that it was impractical to continue dragging four or five sketchbooks full of unfinished work around and deciding on the spot which ones to complete, not that he had the luxury to screw around with the details. If he wasn't able to complete eight pieces by the three week deadline, he would have to wait a year for another chance.

Now back at his apartment, his habit of gnawing of the eraser of his pencil was proving quite a hinderance as he looked over the ten sketches he had lying in front of him. Jim preferred to use a larger erasing tool as opposed to the tiny pink rubbery things they stuck on the back of pencils that were a mockery of the amount of renewable graphite the tools could hold. Still, for small details, the laser removers were too unrefined and always covered too large an area for his liking.

He stared at the sketchbook size version of the bird's flight and compared it with the larger sketch he had attempted in Spock's studio earlier that week. As a compact image, the birds were able to spread across the page evenly and still fill the page. Transferring it to a larger size had compromised the artistic integrity of the piece. The birds were too spaced out and the composition was thrown askew.

Sighing, he tossed his pencil aside and rocked back on his heels. Sunlight was pouring through the apartment window and he could hear McCoy beginning to stir on the couch. He glanced at the time as he stood, gathering his papers. Nine hundred hours. He had been up all night reviewing the sketches and the work was beginning to strain his eyes and his patience.

Sufficiently tired, if not satisfied, he decided that now was as good a time as any to get some shut eye before going to see Spock again. It was difficult planning his work schedule around the sessions, but worth it. He had made real progress in the past few days, more, he felt, than he had in the year since moving out to San Francisco. Working with someone else who loved art as much as he did wasn't something he experienced every day, and something he didn't know he would love as much as he did. Kindred spirits, he thought, watching another artist at work was bringing out his love not only for art, but for simply creating. He held the worn sketches in his hands, feeling a warmth spread in his chest at the mere prospect of giving them the chance at real life.

Jim stumbled back to his room, stubbing his toe in the process. Cursing quietly, he glanced down at the offending object.

It was the painting of Spock. It had been carelessly tossed aside when he had dragged his sketchbooks and unfinished works out from hiding earlier that day. And a random suggestion: I suddenly had an image of Jim freaking out because he accidentally broke the wooden frame it's wrapped on. Than he could paint another! :D lol Just thought I'd suggest.)) He looked at it now with an awareness he didn't have when he had been painting it. He hadn't known the Vulcan when he had started painting, although he barely did now. He stared at the painting. The edges were rough and unfinished, but it was undeniably Spock. His clearly defined eyebrows pointed into a severe expression that opposed the softness in his eyes.

It was creepy. He had painted this guy without his consent, without even knowing him. He couldn't have this in his home; it was borderline creepy. Jim grasped the edge of it and headed toward the recycling module. Ripping it open, he lifted the canvass with the intent to shove it inside and never look at it again.

Okay, he thought, just toss it in there.

He didn't let go.

"Come on Jim," he muttered to himself "This is creepy. You need to get rid of this painting"

His fingers remained firmly grasped around the edge. Even as he willed them to let go, they began to turn white with exasperation.

"Fine!" He kicked the module shut with a slam and tossed the painting onto his bed. The mattress dipped with his weight as he sat down. He couldn't throw away the painting, he resigned. It was too unfinished. He would have to complete it before he could get rid of it. He certainly wasn't making excuses, he reasoned, this was a completely legitimate feeling, right? Sighing, he leaned back on the bed; he really needed to sleep. He couldn't think clearly when he had been awake for over thirty hours.

There was movement at his door. He lifted his head to see Bones standing in the doorway.

"You okay? You almost broke that recycling unit."

Jim rested his head back "Yeah, I'm fine, sorry for waking you."

"Nah, I'm supposed to be up anyway. I actually wanted to let you know that I'll be out of your hair after tonight."

Jim sat up "Oh? Does that mean you worked things out with Jocelyn?"

McCoy shifted his weight. "Not exactly."

Jim's smile faded. If he wasn't going back to Jocelyn, and wasn't staying here, it meant that he was getting a more permanent place outside his own home. Which meant-

"Hey, I'm sorry, is there anything I can do to help?"

McCoy shook his head, eyes never leaving the floor "It's not like I didn't see it coming. Maybe the time apart will help. I'm just worried about Joanna; if this goes on for too much longer, she could get hurt."

Jim gave an understanding nod "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nah, I'll be fine. I need to head to the academy anyway; we have new recruits coming in today, and then I'll come back tonight and get my stuff. I've made arrangements renting an apartment a few blocks away with a friend from the engineering department." He stepped away from Jim's door "You know it's not too late to enlist. Star Fleet would be lucky to have you ya' know."

Jim rolled his eyes exasperatedly "Yeah, I'll get right on that, Mom."

"Get some sleep too. I know you've been up all night, young man-"

"Computer, close bedroom door." The sliding door shut with an easy glide. It didn't have the same effect as slamming the door in Leonard's face, but it would suffice. He leaned back again and shut his eyes. He would figure out what to do with the painting when his body was more rested.

He fell asleep tracing the curves of the unfinished portrait with his eyes.

"You seem distracted today."

Jim looked up from his work and turned towards Spock. The sun was low in the sky and the windows were in just the right spot to illuminate his features perfectly.

Jim had brought several pictures to work on during today's session, but had barely been able to lay out the rough lines without thinking about Spock's portrait.

"Perhaps the stress of completing the pieces is beginning to affect your performance." Spock offered.

Thank you Vulcan logic, Jim mused. The ready-made excuse was too perfect to pass up.

"Yeah, you're probably right." Jiggling his leg, he turned his head toward the window. "Hey, you want to take a quick walk? It's really nice out and it would probably be a good distraction."

"It would be unwise to waste time walking when you could be working to complete your portfolio."

Jim visibly deflated and there was a short silence between them

"But I suppose you have made significant progress in the last three days and a short break would not hinder the process."

Jim practically leapt from his seat. "Great! Let's get out of here."

Spock was a bit less enthusiastic in his movements, but he did follow Jim as he left the room, leaving the half finished drawing on the table.

"We are about a block away from the beach; that scenery always gives me inspiration." He didn't mention that often that inspiration came in the form of the sunbathing occupants of said beach.

The evening air was perfect, slightly damp, but not stiflingly humid, and there was just enough of a breeze to make the palm trees sway lightly. Jim took a deep breath through his nostrils and pushed it through his teeth, whistling as the air left his lungs.

They walked in silence for a time, simply enjoying the warm light filtering down from the setting sun. They walked a path familiar to Jim. It was one that he would walk whenever he felt the birth pangs of artist's block or couldn't handle tracing the cracks in his bedroom ceiling with his eyes for a moment longer. They walked on a path that sat directly next to the beach, and Jim could smell the salt wafting in from the ocean water. The beach presented itself to them, stretching out before the water and accepting the soft plumes that lapped at its edges.

Jim gazed upon the unmarked sand. Aside from an elderly couple walking slowly on the path adjacent to them, he and Spock were alone on the beach. It was almost romantic, taken out of context, a thought that both embarrassed and excited him at the same time.

"I'll bet you've seen a lot of sand coming from Vulcan." Jim said, taking a step off the guided path onto the shallow beach.

"Indeed, although the sands of Vulcan are much redder than the sand you find here." Spock stopped his trek, and did not follow Jim off path.

"It must have been weird getting used to all this water though," a few more steps "Planets with dry atmospheres like that are never much for the H two Oh."

"It is very different here, but by no means is it trying. Although I do find the custom of dumping water on one's self to get clean a difficult thing to get used to."

Jim smiled, small talk with a Vulcan, who would have thought? "You know you can always just use the air shower attachment, the pressure gets you just as clean and you don't have to feel uncomfortable."

"I am aware of this option, although I prefer to assimilate to the customs of this planet if I am going to be living here for an extended period of time and- May I ask what it is that you are doing?"

Jim had been walking in a circle, dragging his feet across the sand and holding his arms out as if her were walking a tightrope. "You may ask me whatever you like Mister Spock." He pushed more sand using the outer edges of his shoe as a shovel, and when he had completed the circle, dropped his arms and turned his face toward his Vulcan acquaintance and gave him a gleaming smile. "It's inspiration! I'll bet in all those years staring at the sand, you never once made it your canvas, using it to create a work of art so gorgeous it would make the sun seem dim in comparison."

One pointed eyebrow rose harshly "And is it a fair assumption to say that you have?"

"Nope." A look of confusion, no, curiosity, met the answer "But there's a first time for everything." And with that, Jim kicked off his shoes and dashed out into the sand. He didn't even look to see if Spock had followed him, and he was too in the moment to care.

Jim used his feet and hands, dragging his heels across the warm sand, and building trenches that, when he ventured too close to the ocean, flooded with salty water. Mind filling with a swelling inspiration, he pressed his hands against the sides of a shallow tower, packing the damp sand into place. It was a work of passion, and a rush of careless abandon guided his path as he created.

It was creation, pure and simple. He let his mind wander freely as his body worked, seemingly on its own, to paint in a new way.

How had he never thought of this before? It was the same path he walked every day. He had seen children building sand castles, but the idea had never occurred to him to do it himself. It was a feeling similar to how he felt when he took a can of spray paint to the streets; exhilarating, breath taking, and fulfilling.

Time escaped him, when he finally dropped down into the sand exhausted, he found that the sun had set and that he had marked over twenty square yards of sand.

Birds. Everywhere Jim had been, birds had erupted from his feet and hands. He had taken the failed graphite picture and given it a new dimension. The sand held almost none of the same properties as paper and pencil, and it added to the subject matter something that such a traditional media could not. A sense of pride in his work blossomed in Jim's chest, he felt as if he had overcome a huge obstacle, and his art was no longer restricted to the confines of a canvass.

He raised his head to see Spock, still standing in the exact same spot with his hands clasped behind his back that he had been when Jim started his outburst. Slightly embarrassed, and ashamed that he had wasted so much time, he made a move to get up, but Spock held up a hand, telling him to stay put.

The Vulcan moved around the erratic markings toward him, taking care not to step on the sculpted sand. Finally he stopped beside Jim, looking out at what he had created. A calculated silence ensued. Jim could hear the blood pounding in his skull, sending another harsh spike of adrenalin through his body. He swallowed dryly, feeling unbelievably nervous for the critique that was sure to come. He couldn't believe how much he had come to value Spock's opinion in the short time they had known each other, and even though this was clearly a burst of passion, he felt a slight tremble in his hands and desperately wished for the Vulcan's approval.

Finally Spock opened his mouth "I have to admit, when I saw the attempt to finish this work on paper, I was not sure you had made the correct decision. The confines of the canvass were too much for this piece, and transferring it to larger paper took quite a bit away from the composition. But this..." Jim had never heard a Vulcan trail off in the middle of a sentence before. Spock turned slightly to face him, and for the second time since meeting him, Jim felt his heart stop. A smile had found its way to Spock's stern face, it was nothing more than the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but it was a smile none-the-less. "This is nothing short of beautiful."

Jim felt the blush burn across his cheeks and hoped it was too dark for Spock to see. He could not help himself from smiling and turning away from the praise.

"I believe this would be an adequate addition to your portfolio."

Jim turned, surprised at the suggestion "I think it would be a bit difficult to fit this one into a plastic sleeve protector." He stifled a laugh at the thought of a handful of sand in his portfolio.

"I was suggesting that we take a picture to document it."

Jim was instantly reminded of a twenty first century phrase: face palm. 


End file.
